First, apologies for not posting in a few weeks. On to the FR.

I woke up today with the Kimbo Slice of pimples. It was as if my brain had mutinied against my body and was trying to escape through my forehead. As I’ve posted before, one of my biggest sticking points is just getting my ass out of the house. So, with a third nipple sprouting from my face, I definitely did not want to go out. BUT, I’ve been trying to adopt a mindset of going out when I want to go out the least to combat the apathy that has been so harmful to my sexlife. So tonight, I was going out.

I heard from my friend R that he and some friends were grabbing some burgers and going to a few clubs. I hadn’t seen R for years, and I’d just found out he lived in Chicago, so I was pretty excited to have a relaxed night with some old mates.

I arrived before anyone else and R texted me and told me to get a table for 12 (12?!). Guess I’ll have to be social after all. When their crew arrived, I was chuckling pretty hard. It was 9 IT nerds (no offense gents; I love you and I’m a nerd too), one of their wives and her two friends, one of which is a delicious Latina HB9. As it turns out, HB9 ends up sitting next to me.

Also included in this crowd is a gentleman I will call Boring Bob. Boring Bob could be an underwear model. This guy is like the George Clooney of IT nerds. He’s about 10 ft tall and plays hockey. But fuck if this guy didn’t have the social skills of a Christmas ham.

You can probably imagine the dynamic at a table with 9 IT nerds and one exotic HB9. Everyone is interviewing her. “Where are you from,” “What do you do,” “Can I get you a drink,” etc., etc. So I don’t say shit to her. Don’t even introduce myself. Instead, I have a bunch of laughs with my old friend and have a good time. I can tell she is curious.

Eventually she grabs the beer out of my hands to “check the alcohol content.” We still hadn’t even introduced ourselves at this point. I snatch it right back, give her a huge smile with dominant eye contact, and say, “What the hell??!!! If you are trying to see how drunk I am so you can take advantage of me, you have got another thing coming, Missy! I am NOT that kind of girl. GOD.” She’s hooked. We have great convo off and on with lots and lots of kino.

Here’s the confusing part. She’s married and will not let me forget it. My husband blah blah blah (heavy kino) blah blah. Whatever. I’m having a good time. At one point I spilled water on my lap and she started laughing at me. I laughed and smiled and said, “Hey fuck you okay?” and handed her a napkin. Like a good girl she took the napkin and patted down my crotch at the table in front of everyone. I was RELISHING the jealousy. More importantly, though, my state was quickly snowballing.

I can kind of tell (or I am shooting myself in the foot by assuming) that I’m not going to get anywhere with the married HB9, but she is cool as hell and I figure she’ll be a good asset at our next venue.

We head into the next club and grab a table. It’s a very awkward mix of club and restaurant. Everyone has a table and there are casual “waiters” walking around taking drink orders, which means opening a set would require approaching a table. Not ideal.

But don’t tell that to Boring Bob. Boring Bob thinks he is a super hero and strolls up to a 2-set of HB8s and immediately starts to lose it. I can tell just by the body language. Him: drink at chest, looking down, probably saying boring ass stuff. Them: leaning away, giving each other the who-the-fuck-is-this-guy look. All the IT nerds are just watching and laughing, but none of them are helping, and none of them have the balls to approach themselves.

I, on the other hand, am a Sedditor. I was not going to let Boring Bob bomb, even if I just met him a few hours before. I tell the IT nerds to get out of the way and approach the set. I put my hand on Boring Bob’s shoulder and say, “Hi guys!” Girls are still in bitch mode, but I push through it. “I see you guys met Boring Bob! Let me tell you I love this guy. I would do anything for Boring Bob. Did you know he plays hockey? [turn and isolate obstacle] I’m Soupertramp.” Simple and textbook.

Luckily, the obstacle is just my type. She’s bubbly and sweet and warm and has wonderful energy. We shoot the shit for a few minutes, but I feel the convo is waning even though I’m DHVing. I can also see Boring Bob is still, well, being boring, and I want to save some of his value so I say, “We have a bunch of friends here, so we’ll catch up with you guys later. Will you be here?” My target (blonde HB8 who was originally the obstacle) says, “Yes!” I drag him out and we rejoin our friends.

I feel great about the whole thing until I realize this: I just blew myself out of a set. I had no reason to leave. I could have escalated in so many ways. I could have helped Boring Bob in so many ways. Oh well.

I find out when I get back to the table that they had been taking bets on which of us would “succeed.” I asked who their money on but they wouldn’t tell us. After a while, everyone starts getting boring and I see the pool table open up so I grab married HB9 and drag her over there. She is kino’ing me hard and we’re having a good time. So I make some eye contact with the blonde HB8 from earlier across the club. Eventually, because of my perceived value with HB9 and my come-hither eye contact, they come over and ask to play doubles.

If you guys didn’t know, pool is a great pick up tool. It is a fantastic opportunity to laugh at yourself, bust a girl’s balls, pretend like you are being hustled, have convo in between shots, and, most importantly, kino. H9 quickly realizes what is going on and, like a TRUE champ, slips gracefully into wingwoman mode. She laughs at my jokes, keeps kino’ing, and eventually leans over and says, “you got this” and leaves me to my game with the HB8s.

Wingwoman. Go get one. Seriously.

We have a great time, and my target’s friend really warms up to me. I say, “Come back to our table!” They do, of course, because they are having fun.

I will never forget the look on Boring Bob’s face when he sees me leading the girls who blew him out over to our table. Boring Bob is utterly fucking shocked. He looks like a GQ model with his pants down. Everyone else was shocked, too, except HB9 and her friend who later said, “We had our money on you the whole time!” I also heard them EXPLAINING to one of the IT nerds why I succeeded instead of the infinitely more attractive Boring Bob: “He’s not THAT good looking, but he has so much confidence all the time, which you should fake if you don’t have.” It made me feel great.

Anyway, I chat with blonde HB8 for a while and we have some laughs. Her friend is the DD and she has to bounce. I pull HB8 in close and say “I think you have a really awesome energy, and I want to keep hanging out with you,” and hand her my phone. She puts her number in.

I feel like this is a consistent moral of the story for me: wingwomen help you win. Get one. Usually, they are happy to help you in your pick up pursuits; they think it’s fun. The best part is, beautiful women know what the fuck is going on. Their social skills are off the charts. You don’t need to give them any instructions. They’ll understand and they’ll help if they think you’re a cool person. Also, pimples don't matter.

TL;DR: HB9 pats down my crotch in public and later helps me #-close an HB8.